


Two, Two, The Rivals

by Tammany



Series: The Sussex Downs [4]
Category: Good Omens, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mash-up, Sherlock and Good Omens crossover.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 20:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20279353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: The social group grows. Sherlock meets Angel and Crowley. He has things to say, to his brother's embarrassment. (Really, Sherlock can't behave anywhere!)A bit of trifle-porn. A bit of Greg having iron nerves and the skills of the sort of border collie who herds kittens.More to come. I think I get into Sherlock's own head next time. As it is, though, he's not exactly being shy about letting us know what he is thinking.





	Two, Two, The Rivals

Strawberries, Mycroft thought, smiling as he considered the huge trifle sitting in the fridge. Sweetest and most fragrant of all the fruits. Let people moan and groan over mango—give him little wild fraise, delicate forest berries, fat cultivated monsters. You name it, he’d take it.

The trifle Lestrade had spent half the day making was an ode to strawberries. He’d picked some wild, clustered in little patches among the heather and gorse. The rest he’d bought in a huge flat, from a farmer’s market in the nearby town. He’d used half the fat cultivated ones for juice to flavor the jelly. He’d sweetened it with a little sugar, added tartness and even more fragrance with a bit of lemon juice and zest. He’d set it up in the refrigerator in cake pans the same circumference as the trifle bowl.

He’d made a dense crème Anglais, thick enough to hold dull peaks, fragrant with vanilla and a scrape of nutmeg. It was delicious—Mycroft knew, because he’d stolen entire spoons full, swearing he was “quality control,” and moaning as though he and Greg had been alone, in bed.

The trifle was built on firm, stable pound cake, sprinkled with Chambord. Lestrade had layered in sliced, macerated berries (more Chambord!) and crème anglais and sparkling sheets of jelly, just over two rounds from the bottom up (two jelly rounds, three of everything else.). He’d topped it with whipped cream, and then added the tiny wild berries he’d harvested himself.

Had he not already been in love with Greg, Mycroft thought, he’d marry the damned trifle. It was that exquisite.

He’d been looking forward to it all afternoon. It had sweetened his bickering with his brother, and soothed the uneasy sense of pending insanity that came of knowing he’d invited total strangers over to visit, without even setting a time and planning an escape route.

Something about the shore house was warping him. He could tell. He was not the man he’d thought he was… Worse, he liked it that way.

He managed to push his lack of comfort over the neighbors to the back of his mind, while engaging in an entire day of unfamiliar luxury. A swim in the pool at the side of the house. A shower to follow, lazily luxuriating in little grooming rituals—a shave with a cut-throat razor that had belonged to his grandfather, for example. He’d stropped it to perfect sharpness, used hard scented soap to build a lather, and shaved himself to satiny smoothness. He’d dressed for the afternoon and for dinner to come, dressier than his chinos and button down earlier, yet still miles from his usual bespoke city suits. No. He wore white linen trousers cut wide and loose over fine quality woven Greek fisherman's sandals. A Cuban shirt, all fancy embroidery and deep patch pockets and a wide open neck that let the air in. He felt as though he glowed.

They ate roasted lamb with rosemary grown in their own yard. Drank a rose wine too sweet for the City, but perfect by the sea. Nibbled asparagus. He and Sherlock bickered with only traces of their usual acrimony.

It was easy to forget that company might arrive at any moment.

It was still day—the summer dusk late to arrive. Greg was out basking himself in the last of the sun. Mycroft and Sherlock had cleared the table and even succeeded in cleaning the kitchen without breaking into open warfare. Instead they were drinking the last of the bottle of rose wine, and discussing plans for the cottage.

Mycroft was not surprised to hear John wasn’t going to live with Sherlock after all. Or that he was dating again. Or that he had not sorted out any rational plans. But it did explain his brother’s more obvious trigger points this visit.

It was as good a day as Mycroft could imagine in his wildest dreams. Tempting. He thought, wistfully, that it would be nice to retire early and take over the bigger of the two houses with Greg. But he had trouble imagining Greg wanting to retire yet himself…and he’d always suggested they take over the Buckinghamshire house come the day it ever happened. Greg always seemed to like the country side up there, and he’d been quite impressed with the vast hulking architecture…

But he seemed to like this place, too.

Perhaps it was time to stop guessing, and talk?

He should light candles soon, as the sun went down. Maybe even light a fire, if the evening cooled.

“Will Rosie at least be staying often?” he asked, idly. “I’ll arrange to have the pool fenced, if she does. She’ll be safer.”

“She six. And she swims.”

“She’ll still be safe if she can’t go in alone.”

And then, like magic—like unicorns in the garden, and mermaids on the rocks in the sea below; like griffons nesting on the headland, and dragons stealing sheep from the upper downs--legends swept without warning into the house, and the world came to a silent stop to appreciate the miracle. Even Sherlock froze still and silent in the big twine-seated arm chair in which he sprawled, wine-glass in hand.

Mycroft had found them fascinating as an odd couple going down to the beach. In more formal clothes?

There was an alien elegance about them. Strange signs of time piled up kept pinging Mycroft’s senses. That dress—what was it about that dress, pale green as an American luna moth, trimmed in bright pink plaid ribbon—it was quaint, and the ways the Angel accessorized spoke of prior eras. And cobra-man—Crowley? What was it about that long, lanky, clever-eyed creative cool that set off alarms?

And why did his heart rise up when they came in, Greg moving behind them like a border collie herding something spare and strange, his eyes laughing and bemused?

“Mycoft, I am told there is trifle to be had,” Angel said, even as her eyes roamed the open floorplan, with the living area to the right, the dining area to the left, the kitchen at the far-left back of the floor, and the bedrooms hidden away out of sight where the back of the house looked over the highway.

“There is indeed trifle to be had,” Mycroft said, surprised to find himself smiling and bowing over her hand. It was a hand that belonged in a Renaissance cartoon in red chalk, square palmed, strong, graceful, but not long. Sturdy hands…

He found himself treating her like Her Majesty, the Queen…and meaning it.

“Sherlock, you scapegrace. We’ve got company,” he said, recalling his brother to his manners and his hospitality. Or at least, he’d hoped…

“I’d noticed,” Sherlock growled. Mycroft looked over his shoulder and realized his brother was on his feet, eyes narrowed, jaw set…

Oh. Oh, dear lord. Deducing. Sherlock was deducing.

Who knew what he’d say?

“They are my guests,” he said, suddenly prepared to fight to the death for his neighbor’s safety.

“They are not what they seem,” Sherlock said—and once said, Mycroft could see it was true. Whatever they were, they were not “just Anthony J. Crowley and his pretty common-law wife, Angel.”

“The woman is no woman. I would suspect her of being transsexual—her body language is assumed, not natural, and she wears her clothes as costume, not as practical choice.”

“Sherlock, shut it,” Greg growled. “Not our business.”

His inflection jerked Mycroft’s heart. Greg had not seen it—but having it drawn to his attention, he could no more deny the sense of gender peculiarity than Mycroft could.

Mycroft looked at Angel apologetically. “A moment. I’ll get rid of him. He can spend the night at the hotel in town,” he said.

Angel, however didn’t look as stricken as one might expect. Not that there was time to think, as Sherlock ignored the command to be silent.

“As for her companion, it may take time to determine if he’s born with a condition, has developed one, or has abused himself in ways to create physical issues. He’s—“

“Standing right here, sunshine,” Crowley drawled.

Oh, lord. He wasn’t angry—he was amused. Amused and challenged. Now they were in for it. Sherlock bristled, and tidied himself for battle. A quick pop to his open collar, making the wings stand high and frame his slim neck and head. Fingers quickly slipping through tousled hair. Body standing taller, as he moved with a fighter’s stance toward Crowley, who was once again the odd, threatening cobra man.

Cobra man—but, like Sherlock, seeming to set his “cool” in place. He swaggered in loose-legged ease, hips fluid, hands shoved into his pockets. The scaly houndstooth red and black scarf whispered of snake-bite and fangs.

Like fencers, they tested each other.

“No profession. No better than you should be. Repeatedly under police observation—never caught, though.” Sherlock spat the words out, a quick barrage of shots across Crowley’s bow.

“Younger brother, no nicer than you can help, jealous of your brighter, more successful brother.”

“Crowley…” Angel sighed, seeming more resigned than upset. “Do be gentle with the boy—he’s barely an infant. Not up to your weight at all.” She perched on the arm of Mycroft’s sitting room sofa, watching the two duelers circle each other. Her voice was suddenly more reproving. “It’s not sporting, dear. Really, like shooting sitting birds.”

“He started it, Angel…”

“Oh, don’t stop for me,” Sherlock purred, begging for a fight. “Want to appear cool—but dress out of the charity shops.” He sniffed. “Clothing far too tight.”

“Says the pot to the kettle,” Greg said. Like Crowley, he seemed less distressed than amused. “Mike, love, can I get you and Angel something to drink while we wait for these two to be ready for trifle?”

Angel perked up, and considered. “Oh, that would be lovely. Recommendation?”

“Strawberry trifle to come. I’d pick something to go with that. A champagne and strawberry spritzer?”

“Perfect,” she said, with a far from maidenly thump in the nearest chair.

“Same,” Mycroft murmured, and watched the two still engaged in their face-off.

No—Crowley was not angry, or worried, or afraid of being borne over by Sherlock. He was like the old sensei with the young smart-arse who needed to be dumped on his bum a few times…

The more he studied the two, the odder they seemed. Sherlock was right: Angel didn’t move like a woman born of woman. Her behavior was as assumed as that of an excellent drag queen. And yet—Mycroft would swear, looking at her, that she was genuine in every physical detail. He would find no thread-thin white lines of cosmetic surgery. Her breasts were the real deal, flaws and all. She would have stretch marks on her stomach, and she showed all the wrinkles around her eyes…

Crowley was almost inhuman in his body, now that Mycroft studied him. Too thin. Too supple. And he, like Angel, was performing.

But neither was "performing" friendliness, and certainly not their affection for each other. That was real. Perhaps only that was real: two friendly neighbors, in love with each other beyond all mortal limits.

“What are you,” Mycroft murmured to Angel.

She shot him a reproving glance, and her voice was suddenly commanding. “Leave it, sirrah! There’s more in heaven and earth than is told in your philosophies…”

He almost fought, but things looked dangerous between the duelers.

The two stood toe to toe, now, nose to nose, narrowed eyes challenging dark sunglasses, fluffed black curls attempting to outface deep cherry brownie hair in a long queue.

“You’re involved in surveillance of England and its citizens, working for a foreign party.”

“Color me terrified by your guess work,” Crowley drawled. “Not only out of date, but you don’t have even a clue who I spied for.”

“Our darkest enemy.”

Crowley barked with laughter. “You are you own worst enemies. I never could maintain half the record of clever-dickery you hu…your people can.”

“Crowley, dear, please. I know it’s been ages since you’ve had a good match, but really—we’re guests. Do comport yourself with at least some dignity?” Angel huffed, exasperated. “You’re not keeping your defenses up, either—out of practice.”

Sherlock glanced her way, and scowled. “Who _are_ you?” he asked, voice almost whining. “You’re like a drag queen playing Mummy.”

“Your mother will no doubt be delighted to hear it,” she said, and then huffed. “I’m Angel. I promise. No lies. I. Am. Angel. Now, you cocky young savage, stop embarrassing your brother and shut it!” As she spoke her voice morphed seamlessly from good natured if sardonic humor, to dry sincerity, to sudden and absolute authority. Mycroft had heard career officers and life-long aristocrats fail to summon up that kind of command voice. When Sherlock hesitated, her eyes narrowed, and she added with fierce drive, “Young man, stand down before you make me do something you would regret more than I would. Go. Help your brother’s partner serve drinks and trifle.”

Sherlock couldn’t let go. “What arrrre you?” It was a near whine. “You’re no normal woman. You’re no normal anything. If I didn’t know better I’d think you fell out of a Doctor Who episode, wearing a people-skin and farting decayed calcium.”

“And if I didn’t know better I’d say you were a closeted demisexual panamorous virgin,” she snapped. “But I’d be off by a few points, wouldn’t I, my dear boy?”

Sherlock blinked at her, stunned like a mule hit upside the head with a two-by-four. “What?”

She sighed. “Never mind, child. Go. Hop it. Help serve the desert.” And, when Crowley made small grumbly noises, she gave him a regal glare, and said, “As for you, we are having words later, love. You should be ashamed.”

He scowled-then laughed and relaxed, stepping back from Sherlock. “Ah, but I’m not, you know, Angel. Not a bit of it.”

“Scapegrace.” Her tones were doting…and her look was actually quite warm.

Sherlock appeared to think so also—he blushed pink as Angel’s earlier plaids, and sloped away, looking anywhere but at the two lovers.

That left Mycroft alone with the two.

He studied them. Then, cautiously, he said. “Do I need to worry for England’s future?”

Crowley chuckled. “Not if we can help it—though it’s not so much our mansion these days. Retired. But, no—been a very long time since you could even pretend I was a threat.”

“He’s only exaggerating a little,” Angel said, though she kept stern, scolding eyes on her beloved…if also sending him a doting little smile. “The worst he’s been for, oh, nigh-on forever is more in the range of ‘trickster’ than ‘Satanic influence.’”

Mycroft considered…and something clicked.

He couldn’t believe it.

No one could believe.

And, yet, his deducing abilities were sure.

In a near whisper he said, “You… You are…”

“Angel,” Crowley said, grinning. “She’s Angel.”

And Angel, smiling in utter adoration said, “And Crowley is my fallen angel…the very devil and all.”

The thing was, he believed them. Absolutely and utterly. So much so that the only thing he wanted to say was, “So--what’s it like?”

Their eyes gazed at him, for all the world as though they could tell what he was thinking. Then, in a kind and avuncular voice, Crowley said, “Later, outside, we can even show you our wings. Now—about that trifle—Angel’s very fond of trifle, and it’s always a good thing to keep Angel happy.” And he stood, and sloped into the kitchen, calling for a glass of strawberry champagne spritzer and the trifle bowls.


End file.
